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fangsandfeels · 1 year ago

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The vagueness of Astarion sleeping mechanics drives me mad sometimes

So, the game says that elves don't sleep - to the point where it's ironically stated that the only way for them to experience sleeping is to either drink a potion of Angelic Slumber or "get hit really hard with a chair".

Instead, they enter a semi-aware meditative state (Revery) where they experience memories from their past lives (usually most positive and emotional parts). Or they just sorting through their current memories.

Now, we've seen Astarion meditating if his way of lying on a bedroll is anything to go by. He is also immune to sleeping spells. We could also see him sleeping (in a Durge run). I know that devs technically recycle the same sleeping pose for all romanced companions, but still. Also, Astarion has nightmares, which is not typical for elves.

Of course, when I was going through the lore, I scratched the surface, but from what I understood, Revery is supposed to be a controlled state, and nightmares aren't exactly controlled.

But, I've found a very interesting bit that (so far) is still considered part of the official canon:

Elves can sleep and dream just like any human, but almost all surface elves avoid doing so. Dreams, as humans know them, are strange and confusing to elves. Unlike the actual memories of one’s primal soul, present life, or past lives, dreams are uncontrolled products of the subconscious, and perhaps the subconscious minds of those past lives or primal souls as well. An elf who dreams must always wonder whose mind these thoughts first arose from, and why. Priests of Sehanine Moonbow are an exception: they sleep and dream to receive signs from their god, and elves consult such priests to interpret their own dreams."

From: Mordenkainrn's Tome Of Foes, Chapter 2: Elves

And not only does this little bit explain a lot, but it also provides some food for your fic writing purposes.

Now, I'm entering the headcanon territory, so be warned.

Astarion's access to Revery got horribly fucked up after he had been Turned. Not only does he no longer have access to his previous lives since he is technically dead and plucked from the cycle, but he also can't even have his happy or good memories before he became a spawn. Even if they are still there, somewhere in the memory palace, getting to them requires going through the catalog of traumatic and painful memories he acquired after being enslaved by Cazador. It's like running through a burning house trying to rescue your family photo - and the hall gets longer each time. So, entering a trance means confronting the worst memories of his life over and over because there is nothing else there.

Due to this Astarion may resort to sleeping, which elves don't usually do. Elves don't like dreams because dreams are subconscious, and they can't be controlled, which scares them. For Astarion, however, it means there is a chance of him subconsciously dreaming of something nice or just being blissfully empty. However, it doesn't safeguard him from nightmares which (because they are the product of his unconsciousness) get even more twisted than simple memories.

Additionally, there can be a possibility that after becoming a spawn he got cut off from meditation and trances completely, relying on sleeping only: at least, the cut spawn epilogue by Withers mentions how while Astarion needs to sleep again, he doesn't sleep alone. While we don't know what that means exactly (and whether it will ever be implemented in the game), I assume that the tadpole gave him the ability to meditate back, but it was a small improvement because his memory headspace no longer holds happy memories capable of offering solace or refuge.

So, my personal headcanon is that he switches between meditating and sleeping depending on how aware he needs to be, and whatever option feels less torturous at the moment.

For instance, in his Origin run, when he remembers the moment of Cazador carving scars into him, he is in a trance. Which is why the memory is so horribly vivid, as if he is reliving it anew.

However, when he has a nightmare where Cazador finds him, he is sleeping and experiencing a memory affected by his subconsciousness. Which is why he jolts himself awake and desperate to know the limits of his freedom.

So, yes, the man literally can't catch a break.

On a happier note (and for your hurt/comfort fanfiction purposes), once Astarion starts traveling with Tav and the group, his memory bank gets updated with memories that are actually fun and nice, so he has something to linger upon when he is meditating. Sleeping gradually becomes a bit more pleasant experience because his subconsciousness got more material to work with, so the quality of his non-controlled dreams has to gradually improve.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 astarion #astarion #astarion brainrot #dnd elves are strange #feel free to correct me if i goofed up #because it's quite likely i goofed up

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thyme-in-a-bubble · 8 months ago

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the ravenous rupture

fused with the foe, chapter five

a/n: and that's it for fused with the foe! but don't you worry, our wonderful king and queen will return in both of the next instalments of the series ♡ (the release date for the next one is already up on the masterlist)

summary: “I don’t want you to think we have to have a conventional marriage, gods know we haven’t so far,” he added with a tilt of his head, “so, I just wanted to convey to you that if you ever want to be with someone else, at any degree, then you have my full support to do so.”

warnings: king!steve rogers x reader, smut, fantasy AU (monsters, but not much magic), original fantasy world, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, slow burn, innocent!reader, love confession, crying, kissing, loss of virginity, semi-public sex, manhandling, size kink, belly bulge, dirty talk, oral, fingering, handjob, pussyjob, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, multiple orgasms, aftercare

word count: 3895

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Raising yourself up onto your tip toes, your fingertip still didn’t even manage to graze the spine of the tome you were trying to reach, only the tall shelf it stood on.

But just then, before you could turn to get a chair to balance on, an inked hand came into view and grasped the book for you.

“The Biology of Soil: A Farmer’s Comprehensive Study of Dirt,” Barnes dryly read the title out loud, “sounds absolutely riveting.”

“Don’t mock,” you snatched the leatherbound tome out of the knight’s hand, “it is interesting!”

“Of course, it is, your majesty,” he bit down a chuckle, “my apologies.”

A soft laugh couldn’t help but bubble out of you as you exited the library, “you know, you remind me a lot of my brothers.”

Walking at your side, he shot you a squint, “is that a compliment?”

“Well, I meant it as so, but I guess it could also be interpreted as an insult, all depending on which brother.”

Sinking further back into the plush armchair, your eyes danced from star to star as they glinted back at you through the big library window.

The full moon was so bright that you hadn’t needed to light a candle in order to make out the sentences in the open book that rested in your lap.

But suddenly, the creak of the heavy double doors to the chamber found your ears and when you twisted your head to discover who it was, your frame immediately sprung up from your comfortable seat. The forgotten tome tumbled to the floor with a dull thump as the embroidered dressing gown you wore over your ivory chemise fluttered around your legs as you swiftly stood.

“Your majesty–, Steve, I mean, Steve,” you clumsily corrected yourself, “hi, hello.”

“Evening,” he simply smiled, slowing his stride as he watched you bend down to pick the hardback off the floor.

Hugging the book to your chest, you blew out a breath, “what–, uh…” you eyed the loose linen shirt he had sloppily tugged into his trousers, “what are you doing here?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he shrugged, “thought a boring novel might do the trick,” letting his fingertips kiss the ends of each bookcase as he neared you by the window, “what about you?”

“Yeah, I can’t sleep either,” a soft sigh flowed from your lips, “my mind just doesn’t seem to wanna settle down these days…”

A gentle furrow appeared to Steve’s brow, “what’s troubling you?”

“Ah, it’s nothing,” you placed the book down on the round side table by the armchair.

“If it’s keeping you up then it’s not nothing,” gripping the tall back of the chair, he rested against it as he gazed at your visage in the moonlight, “come on, you can talk to me.”

The knot in your chest tightened, “no, I can’t,” and you averted your gaze to the stone floor, “I really can’t…”

“Why?”

“Because–…” clenching your jaw in an effort to keep tears at bay, you briefly shot him a glare as you snapped, “because I just can’t, alright?” squeezing your eyes shut, you quietly muttered just beneath your breath, “gods… how long will I have to wait…”

Having apparently had better hearing than you’d thought, Steve then queried, “wait for what?”

Fluttering your eyes back open, you met his gaze and uttered sombrely, “…for it to pass…” feeling your heart thump painfully in your chest just from the mere sight of him.

A low sigh slowly seeped out of his lungs before his unwavering gaze averted to the upholstery of the chair, “…I hope you know that I’ve grown to care for you a great deal. You’re a very dear friend,” he uttered with the utmost sincerity, “and as a dear friend, I wish for you nothing but the purest of happiness. I want you to experience all of the great and wonderful things that life has to offer,” his ocean eyes then drifted back up to catch yours, “don’t let our union hold you back for any of that.”

Sucking in a breath, you asked, “what do you mean?”

“I don’t want you to think we have to have a conventional marriage, gods know we haven’t so far,” he added with a tilt of his head, “so, I just wanted to convey to you that if you ever want to be with someone else, at any degree, then you have my full support to do so.”

Averting your gaze, “…is that what you want?” you dug your nails into your opposite palm, “for us both to openly be with other people?”

“I don’t want you to be lonely and depressed,” fragments of desperation resonated in his tone, “you’ve already experienced more than one lifetime of hardships and I really don’t want this to be another one. So, when you fall in love, please don’t hesitate. You of all people deserve to experience that.”

“…I–…” a shaky breath escaped you, “I can’t–…”

“…you can’t?” he echoed in nearly a whisper.

“I can’t because–…” lifting your gaze, the library around you grew more blurry by the second, “because I can’t stop thinking about you,” you revealed, “from the moment that I wake to even the dreams that possess me at night. I can not shake you from my thoughts no matter how hard I try,” as you blinked, a tear escaped and rolled down your cheek, “Steve, I wish for you to experience those very joys you speak of just as fiercely. I just want you to be happy even if I’m not the source.”

Looking as if he was scarcely breathing at all, his gaze stayed fixed upon you as he uttered, “dove, why do you think I wish that for you?” your eyes grew wide at his confession, “I don’t wanna be with someone else when you are the one I want by my side,” his fingers faltered from the grip they had on the back of the armchair as his slow steps began to carry him closer to where you stood, “not just as my queen, but as my friend, as my conscience, as my judgement, as my heart,” his eyes glistened as he then declared, “I am yours, Y/n. I didn’t plan for it, I don’t even know when it happened or how, but I do know that it’s true.”

Closing the short distance that remained, you walked up and pulled him down as you began to rise up to your tip toes. As you crashed your lips against his, it didn’t take long before you felt his broad hands glide over your waist.

Breaking the kiss, you retracted just enough to catch the beguiling look in his eye. The corners of his lips drew up dreamily just as yours did right before you dove back in.

As your fingers weaved in his beard, so did his tongue as it danced against your own, making you lightheaded as your feet began to shuffle back, though you didn’t realise that you’d even been moving till your spine crashed against a sturdy bookcase.

Parting momentarily at the impact, a soft giggle swiftly followed your initial squeak the collision conjured. As his gentle chuckle echoed your own, Steve’s palm caressed down your features before he captured your lips once more.

When the fire inside of you crackled and burned too hot for you to ignore, you pulled back, a glossy string of saliva still kept you connected a moment before you gasped, “Steve, I–… I–…”

Resting his palms over yours as they clutched the top of his tunic, he tilted his chin back further, “what?” creating enough of a distance between you to truly check in.

But how you were going to ask of him what you desired remained a mystery, no matter how hard you scrambled your fuzzy mind. So instead, you wrapped your fingers around one of his wrists and slowly guided it lower.

“Dove…” he sucked in a breath as his gaze shadowed the journey you were taking his touch on, “do you wanna–…” finding your eye, he asked you softly, “you sure you know what it is you’re asking for?”

“Yes,” swiftly flowed out of you as you nodded dizzily, “I–… I know. I read the books, I read all of them, I know how it all works,” your rushed words conjured a lovely little chuckle from the royal, “I just–… please?” your hot breathed fanned across his features as he leaned back in close, “I–… I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you…” with your fingers still enveloped around his wrist, his touch slowly began to take over and to move on its own, “fantasising about what you might be like…” unhurriedly ghosting up and down the curve of your waist, “about what your touch must feel like…” each time creeping closer and closer to where you wished for him to caress, “how it differs compared to my own…” till his teasing touch ended each fluttering swoop with feather-light grazes at both the swell of your tits, as well as the lower part of your abdomen, just before he actually reached anything real, through still leaving you utterly dazed.

Leaning a forearm against the shelf behind you, he smirked, “…you think about me?”

“Every night,” you dug your fingers in the fabric of your chemise and pleadingly began to hike it up, “sometimes the sun doesn’t even manage to set before I need a moment alone… all because of you.”

As he then captured your lips in a fierce kiss, his wandering hand dipped under your thin shift before you’d even raised the hem completely. When his touch found your buzzing pearl, a whimper slipped from your lungs and vibrated against his tongue as your grip on the fabric faltered and it dropped to hang around his wrist like a curtain.

“Is this how you dreamed about me touching you?” he gazed down at you, smiling at the way you struggled to keep your eyes open.

Mind melting to ooze, you bubbled, “yes–, but also–, oh!” your brows knit together as he switched to circle your clit harder, “a-also–”

“Also how?” you could hear your want reverberate off the palace walls as he touched you, “did you dream about me kissing you down here?” holding your gaze, Steve then sank to his knees before you.

Your breaths came in ragged as you blinked down at him, “y-yes,” watching intently as he dipped his head under your gathered-up skirts. The sloppy pecks he then lavishly began to plant over your glistening petals felt like nothing you’d ever imagined, “oh, that’s–,” you let out a broken moan, “don’t stop, please don’t stop!”

Throwing your head back against the bookcase, Steve’s grip buried in your crumbled clothes as his soft tongue dragged through your desperation.

Letting go of your chemise with one hand, it drifted down your hip. Enclosing his lips around your throbbing clit, he sucked down hard as his fingers joined to sweep through your mess, only parting from you for a breath, “gods, you taste so fucking good,” before he eased one digit inside your clenching cunt.

You barely noticed that it was falling before the robe you wore slipped off your frame and tumbled to a puddle on the floor, leaving you with only the thin shift and the king’s hot kisses for warmth in the cold night.

“I can’t believe this is actually happening,” you whimpered, reaching down to thread your fingers in his honied hair as a second finger sneaked in beside the other, fucking you gently with them.

You nearly wiggled out of his grasp when his luscious laps unravelled you completely, but somehow the monarch managed to follow your every squirm till he softened his efforts and replaced them with a few soft pecks over your sensitive clit that made your whole form twitch.

Fluttering your eyes open, you met his gaze as he raised the back of his hand to wipe some of your juices from his beard.

Breathlessly, you uttered, “get up,” and as he did, you didn’t waste any time before your eyes drifted from his tender stare, “take your shirt off.”

With one hand, he reached back and tugged the tunic off of his head, swiftly letting it drop to the floor and join the fabric puddle already at your feet.

For a moment, he didn’t give in on his urge to close the short distance between you, simply stood there and let your stare study him, learn the galaxy of his flesh, every little mark and scar that told the story of his past.

With your eyes still glued to the burliness of his fuzzy chest, you uttered, “tell me again,” before lifting your gaze up to meet his, “tell me again so that I know this is real.”

Reaching out to grasp your right hand, he said, “it’s real,” stepping closer as he placed your ceremonially scarred palm over his heart, “I’m real, this is real,” his fingers on his own marked hand, which clasped over yours, gently brushed over your knuckles as he spoke, “I am yours,” he shifted again and closed the small gap between you, “I will always be yours till my dying breath.”

Sucking in a shaky breath, you watched as the moonlight glinted in the blue of his eyes, making them look like the sea on a stormy night.

“I think my heart has belonged to you ever since the dragon attack,” you professed, “though it took me a while longer before I realised what it was, why you made me feel the way that you do,” you parted your fingers against his chest, “Steve,” and let his weave in with your own, “I love you.”

Using his hold as an advantage, Steve yanked you to him till your lips crashed against his. Letting your free hand wander across his warm skin, it swiftly came down to cup the palpable tent in his trousers.

“Fuck…” he groaned lowly as you offered him a light pet.

As you shifted to fiddle after the buttons on the side of his breeches, even the aid of your other hand didn’t yield any success in undoing more than one of them. Swiftly coming to your rescue, you swore it only took him three seconds before they hung loose enough around his hips for his cock to spring free.

You felt like you couldn’t breathe as you glanced down at length which stood so proud it poked you in the stomach. If only you had the proper context to truly know how intimidated you should have been at the discovery of his fat girth.

Hesitantly inching your fingers closer as you stared, you asked, “can I–…?”

“Mhm,” he hummed as he slowly brought your hand the rest of the way down, engulfing his own grasp around yours and gently showing you how to touch him.

As a sinful curse flowed from Steve’s lips, his free hand drifted up to weave itself into your hair.

“Will it hurt?” you watched how your fingers failed to meet on the other side of his girth.

“I don’t know, I hope not,” his forehead rested against your own, “but if it does, then we just stop and figure something else out, okay?”

“Okay…” you hazily nodded.

Feeling his fingers flex around your own, you saw precum glint at the bulbous tip.

“It’s all for you, dove,” you felt him throb at your touch, “all because of you,” a desperate growl then seeped out of his lungs as he seized your lips in a fervent kiss, and the next thing you knew, the whole world fell out from under you as he scooped you up into his arms. When a shrill yelp escaped you, Steve simply readjusted his grip on you and said, “don’t worry, I’ve got you,” nipping gently at your neck, “I won’t let you fall.”

With your fingers still grasping his girth, the new position now had your pussy pressed dangerously close to it, so close that you couldn’t help but sweep the head of his cock through your soppy folds and drench him. Tapping your clit a few times, the instinctual drive of his hips triggered you to simply cup his length near and let him part your pretty petals and lather himself in your needy nectar. Each desperate thrust ended in an electric nudge at your pearl, rendering you to whimper shakily into the night.

But then suddenly, in the fog of it all, the very tip of him caught your entrance and slipped inside, purely because of just how wet and ready you were.

“O-oh, fuck!” everything froze as you reeled at the staggering sensation, breathlessly digging your nails into his broad shoulders and leaving crescent-shaped marks in their wake.

“Sorry,” he hastily panted, “you okay?”

“Uh–… uh-huh,” you nodded fuzzily, shutting your eyes a moment as you caught your breath.

But then as your gaze fluttered open once more, you caught his stare and offered him a short, affirming nod, holding his eye as he slowly began to move.

Your mouth hung agape as he shallowly fucked you, barely even giving you anything but still turning you into goo in his grasp.

“Y-you’re so beautiful,” you whispered as you fluttered around him.

Gliding you’re your palm up to his cheek, moans tumbled out of you both as he gently began to offer you more. Your legs couldn’t help but twitch in his grasp as he practically split you in half with the way he eased you down on his fat cock.

“You’re doing so well,” his face crumbled up in a silent moan as you felt every detail of him slowly stretch you out, “gods, you’re so wet…”

And the next thing you knew, it wasn’t so slow and steady any longer, as the bookcase your spine was pressed against rattled at his efforts.

You thought before that just the bulbous head of him was overwhelming, but to have that tip kiss desperately against the deepest part of you was something else entirely. You couldn’t speak, you couldn't think, you could barely even breathe, just go slack in his firm hold and feel him, not just right there, but fucking everywhere, that’s how stuffed you were.

Steve’s strength wasn’t that novel to you these days, but to have him lift you up and sink you down on his cock, like you were just a leaf on the wind, still managed to amaze you.

“F-fuck,” you blubbered as you tumbled over the edge once more, “oh, fuck!” accidentally knocking a few books down as one of your arms flailed for purchase.

You barely registered the loud thud the crashing books emanated as your frame melted down into his hold. Your face buried itself in the crook of his neck as he breathlessly came to a halt, still embedded deep inside of your clenching cunt.

The sound of his breaths directly in your ear helped to soothe your tingling senses as he rested his cheek against the crown of your head.

Shifting his feet, Steve carried you the short distance over to the comfortable armchair you’d inhabited earlier. Carefully sitting down in it and keeping you in his lap, his arms silkily slid up your back and hugged you close.

After persuading you to curl out of your hiding spot by planting soft pecks all over your face, you blinked down at him, bathed in the moonlight that gushed in from the tall window beside where you sat.

Gliding a hand around to your front, Steve gently tugged on the thin string at your neckline, undoing the bow, before he pulled the shoulders down your arms till you slid out of the sleeves and the top of the undergarment crumbled to gather at your waist with the rest of the fabric.

As he pressed his lips to the peak of your tits, one of his palms accompanied the kisses. A soft whine flowed out of you as your hand slid down to where your bodies were still joined and played with your puffy pearl.

Casting a glance down, he groaned, “yeah, rub that little clit for me,” and your hips intuitively began to rock gently.

As you touched yourself, something else caught your attention as you slowly began to ride him. At the lower part of your stomach, you felt the dull bulge of his staggering size poke your palm steadily to the rhythm of your gentle efforts.

Letting your pebbly nipple escape from his lips with a pop, his gravelly timbre washed over you as you slowly rocked, “that’s it, fuck–,” his grip slid down to be firm on your ass, “that’s my girl.”

Abruptly, as if snapping out of a trance, you notice just how loud you both were being.

“Wait,” you shushed him though didn’t halt your hips motions, “we’re in the library, someone could hear us!”

“Then fucking let them hear us,” his fingers dug into your ass as he desperately took over and bounced you in his lap, manhandling you as he slammed you down on his cock hard enough for you to lose your breath, “no one would dare bother us, trust me.”

And before you knew it, your cunt clamped down one last time around his cock, hard enough to halt his efforts and milk him of all of his worth.

Weakly letting his dick slip out, your skin was practically glued to his as you plastered yourselves to each other and you sensed his hot load slowly leaked out of your sensitive hole.

As you listened to his heartbeat slowly return to normal and your heavy lids fought to stay open, a thought entered your mind.

“Hey, Steve?”

Shifting his arms around you, his soft hum washed over you, “hm?”

Keeping your voice low, you shared, “I don’t wanna sleep alone tonight…” but to your surprise, a gentle chuckle then rumbled in his chest, “what?” you lifted your head and blinked up at him, “why are you laughing?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just–,” he smiled, gazing down at you as if Zondür himself had divinely created you especially for him, “you really think I’d let you skip off to your room alone after all of that, like it never even happened?”

Huffing out a short giggle, you lowered your glance, “well, when you put it like that…”

“Yes,” he pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose, “if you want me to sleep beside you, I will,” rising from his comfortable seat, he readjusted his grip on you, twisting you to him as he hooked an arm behind your knees and at your back. As he carried you close, he began to lumber out of the library and down the hallway, concurring the short distance to where your chambers lied, “my queen, I would love nothing more for the rest of my days than to fall asleep with your head on my chest and wake up to your softness arching against me…”

Flexing your fingers around his neck, you raised yourself up enough to capture his lips in a tender kiss one last time just as he kicked your bedroom door shut behind you both.

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pursuitseternal · 6 months ago

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“Release Me:” ⛓️ Chains and feral smut ⛓️ for “The Rogue You Were”

Ascended Astarion x F!Reader |E| 2K

“Chains” prompt for Ascended Astarion Week

Summary: After weeks of captivity and starvation, you finally rescue your love from his enemies. But the beast chained in the cell barely knows himself or you… until you’ve satisfied all his hungers.

CW: Blood kink (I just wanted a reason to have them fuck covered in blood), Feral/primal play, desperate sex, long nailed AA, prison sex, bondage/mild BDSM

Ao3 link | Astarion Fic Masterlist

⛓️‍💥⛓️⛓️‍💥⛓️⛓️‍💥⛓️⛓️‍💥⛓️⛓️‍💥⛓️⛓️‍💥⛓️⛓️‍💥⛓️⛓️‍💥⛓️⛓️‍💥

Musty, dark, dead. The bowels of the Red Wizard’s tower are worse than a dungeon. Not a speck of light, no slight hint of breeze. It is a tomb. A coffin. And inside somewhere is your love.

You can feel him, his blood calling to you, even as his mind has unraveled these long weeks of capture. You get fleeting images of his senses: the wide-eyed fear in his chest to be imprisoned in the dark. Away from his beloved sun. The racing pant of his breath to be so enclosed, not unlike that year he never speaks of under Cazador’s torment. Locked away. You feel the stinging of silver chains gnawing at his flesh, burning just enough to sap his strength, but not so strong as to kill him.

This was meant for pain, constructed for punishment, to hold him until his enemies would kill him. Your beloved. Your lord and king and master, overthrown by his foolish need for more power. You told him not to go alone to seek the remnants of the Red Wizards of Thay… you warned him they would want their tome returned and would punish him for knowledge of it.

Even the decrepit remnants of a failed cult can win from time to time.

Your chest burns as you try to catch your breath, your skin and armor slick with the blood of your enemies. But your feet propel forward regardless, pulled by the tether of your bond to Astarion.

You heave a sigh of relief to finally find the cells, thick black doors almost indecipherable in the darkness. A little daylight spell, and your eyes adjust to find a dozen doors carved from the bedrock of this damnable tower. The rattling of metal links, the rough snarls of breath grows louder as you close your eyes and follow the ragged beat of his ascended heart.

Hand shaking, you pull out a Knock spell scroll, a sigh of relief that your own Wizard companion of old had prepared you to take on these foes. Even as your fingers stick to the parchment, hands soaked in blood, you recite the word, and the edge of the cell door glows bright white for a moment.

Resonant, it creaks open on its ancient hinges, revealing a pair of glowing red eyes and the crescendo of dry-throated breath. His body drags across the floor towards your daylight, and your heart bursts with ache to finally see him again. Tears sting your eyes.

Paperwhite and beyond deathly pale, his gaunt face leers at you from the darkness. Lines of red, of raw flesh cross his neck and bare arms and legs where he has been chained.

Chained naked.

Your bile rises in your stomach as you curse his captors souls, glad you have already put those Wizards to a bloody, eviscerating death. You’d do it all again, just to punish them for how they’ve tortured your love. Breathing his name, you enter his cell, the walls of black stone absorbing the light of your spell, it seems. But it gives off enough for you to see every line of his hollowed face, every crest of his bony frame.

Astarion twists against his chains, his mind a pulsing mess of feelings and words, too feral to even speak yet. But one word comes across clearly.

Blood.

His nostrils flare, his tongue dangling over his fangs as he scans your spattered armor. A predator with the scent of prey in his nose.

There’s blood in the air…

He’s too hungry, too starved for blood and for you to be safe. Not with they way his eyes are wild and his tongue laps at his jaw. “Astarion,” you speak, making his black-blown eyes focus on you. “I’m here my love,” you reach a hand out to caress his silver hair, but he just snaps his fangs at you once you're in reach. Those silver chains holding him just shy of disaster.

“Naughty,” you try to chide him, but the humor is lost on his hungry body and soul. Mind racing, your feet race faster, hands finding the closest fallen enemy to drag it back after you down the hall. Then you leave it, ignoring the muffled grunts and growls and slurps he makes as he drains the corpse completely.

When you glance back inside, he looks at you, steadier, calmer, and covered in blood. He still crouches on the ground, hands and feet and neck bound, but now he croaks your name. “Darling,” his voice pains you with recognition, “I knew you’d come.”

You hurry to his side, kicking that light, bloodless corpse to the side. The silver chains at his ankles sting you, but it’s nothing compared to the pain of separation you have endured for weeks. You pull the silver apart in your hands, freeing his legs so he can stretch them out at long last.

A deep grunt of relief sounds from his chest. Your hands work up and down one leg, then the other, trying to soothe the tension and numbness and blood flow.

As you reach the top of his thighs, you withdraw in surprise. His cock achingly hard, juts against his belly, twitching and pink and… happy to see you too.

“I have missed you,” his voice caresses your ear and rushes down your spine, the chains at his neck clinking their high-pitched music as he leans against you. Nose buried in your hair, he inhales your scent like a drowning man gasps for air. “I can’t wait another moment, my love.” His voice unearthly, barely more than a growl, his hands chained near his belly reach into your armor.

You notice his nails, literally clawing for you, seeking your flesh. Nails, so long unkempt, have taken on their wild form, the razor sharp talons of a vampire lord. “I was so worried…. I missed you, my love,” you sigh, an edge of fear in your belly as you long to kiss those bloodstained lips with your own. Ignoring the sting, you grab the silver chain, a little yank to tug at him, making a playful, aroused smirk turn his dripping, scarlet lips as his body draws closer.

“I am master of myself once more,” his brows cant rakishly, even in the dark. “I won’t bite unless you ask very… very… nicely,” he croons straining against your leash.

“Oh, I think you're asking for more than a nibble,” you tease to release some of the fear that still lingers in your veins. Never have you been separated from him since you turned, and never, not even during the Rite of Ascension and your fight against his old master have you feared his death more than these past weeks. Floodgates break, your need to touch him and taste him overpowering all logic and fear.

Your fingers work quickly, unlatching your breastplate and cuisses, eyes locked into his as he watches your every move, tongue licking the blood from the corner of his mouth absentmindedly. You let the metal clang to the floor. Those two restrained hands extend for you, making the chains around his arms hiss as the magic sears more into his flesh anew.

“Hold still,” you order, crouching to grab the chains and tug them free from his flesh, his wounds instantly closing up now that he is well-fed once more.

For all the pain that must be lancing through his body, he just holds your stare with his own, sultry and feral and commanding. “Now, where were we?” he purrs, hands trembling to finally touch your body. Even with sapped strength, he pulls you flush against him, bringing you close. Slotting you in your place against his body. Those blood-caked claws dig into the supple cover of your leathers, tearing through it at your hips and down the seams as though they are paper. You’ll worry about decency later, for now you’re of one mind, unable to think until you’ve joined again.

You sink your body onto his cock, and he sinks his fangs into your blood-spattered neck. Your groans bounce off the pitch black walls, a roar of bliss and relief and release. No more fear or danger, aside from the fear of coming too quickly and the danger of spending hours fucking once more, covered in the drying gore of your foes.

The thought tickles from your mind to his, and he laughs as he thrusts up into you. “Just like old times,” he rasps between swallows from your neck.

Like old times, like every time, your body follows its instincts, finally filled with what you have most craved. His cock stretches you, a nearly unfamiliar pressure once more, but you hardly notice, not with how dripping wet you’ve become just to feel his breath on your neck and savor his muscled frame thrusting into you.

Tears prick at your eyes but you won’t let them wash that blood from your cheeks. No, you just grip into his hair, pulling his mouth from the puncture wounds in your neck to your own waiting lips. The copper tang of your blood floods your mouth as his tongue sweeps inside, the familiar taste of your own blood mixing with the nasty pollution of your enemies’ he drained earlier.

It sours your stomach, the taste, but you’re too lost in the way his breath warms you, inside and out. Those long, feral nails score into your back, wandering quickly between your writhing bodies. With low, rumbling growls into your mouth, he grips your waist, moving you and holding you in place as he fucks harder. More erratic. More hellsbent on that release he needs.

His voice fills your ear, “My Consort, my love, my pet, my saviour,” he pours your beloved epithets over you, breath ragged and out of synch with his roughly snapping hips. One hand lies splayed on the stone behind him, that extra leverage driving him deeper with abandon. He’s thickening inside you, so hot and too quickly.

“Don’t get carried away,” you chide, yanking at the chain around his neck, making his crimson eyes stare at you with lust-blown pupils. “You haven’t even given me a reward yet for my daring bravery, my love.” You make him hiss, his slack mouth baring his fangs in pleasure-ridden pain. “And you haven’t even granted me an apology for running headlong into this… foolishness,” you cock your chin and tug his chain-leash again. “Promise me, no more ludicrous missions without me.”

He growls but nods, hands digging at your ass, not one hint of resistance.

“Then I’m satisfied, well…” you wriggle, clenching your walls on his throbbing cock inside you, “soon to be satisfied.” A laugh shared on both your panting lips, you ride his lap, bringing him back under a steady rhythm, drawing out his pleasure until you’ve had yours as well. He pulls against his last remaining chain, and you tut your tongue. One of your hands brings his fingers into the apex of your thighs, coaxing his finger to circle your clit with every buck. Your other hand releases that leash, freeing it from his flesh at last so you can grab his chin. Then you lick… long and cleansing, tasting the remnants of your blood, and your enemies’, and faint traces of his own.

That warm tip of his tongue laps at the corner of his lips, his breath heavy as he feels your walls fluttering around his cock. Spine arching, hips canting fervently, you scream for him, tears in your throat and down your face at last, as if you didn’t believe you’d ever be brought to orgasm by him again. Sharp nails score into the sensitive flesh of your folds, hips slamming into your last waves of pleasure as he spills inside you, spurt after spurt of his seed filling you and leaking to the prison floor beneath you both.

Crimson eyes glance up at you, wild and sated, hungry and happy all at once. “Get me home, my Consort,” he whispers. “You’ll be coming on my cock in our bed next.”

You smirk, breathless, pulling out a scroll to open a portal to your palace. As you stand, you kick the chains at your feet with your boot, thankful he’s released into your care once more.

⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️

💞 to @marimosalad and @nyx-knox

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lokisgoodgirl · 1 year ago

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An Offering [Asgard! Loki x Fem.Reader]

A link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: Loki's lack of carnal exploits have caused chaos in Asgard- and something must be done. (w/c 2.7k) Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Loki POV. Smut. Language. Ridiculous lore.

Loki’s eyes scanned the lines on the page, uncrossing his ankles before immediately crossing them again.

He was restless. His manhood twitched as he re-read words he had missed in one endless, sprawling sentence. An annal of the wars of Muselpheim. It was the least erotic tome in his personal collection. These days, it didn’t take much.

He cast a glance out the window, wondering what carnage his unspent power was causing at the present time. Had a ghostly tidal wave risen and washed out the harbour town? A curse which made food taste like ash? An unfamiliar steed trotting through the mountain villages with an insatiable appetite for the bemused inhabitants worldly goods?

Loki didn’t know. All he knew was that he didn’t want to see anyone.

It was humiliating. His mother’s voice filled his ears against his will, the memory making his ears burn. You must copulate with someone Loki. Anyone; she had said calmly, her cheeks faintly pink. Chaos is building within you, if it is not released...naturally – then your seidr will find a way to expel itself in other ways,’

Loki shook his head, the familiar clench of embarrassment twisting in his stomach. A belch of smoke began twisting skyward in the distance from the market. It was green. He sighed, shutting the book on his lap and placing it to the side of the window-seat. If he concentrated, he could feel magic leaking from his pores like sweat. It bubbled through the air around him, the faint scent of tart spiced lemongrass following him around. Taunting him. Chaos.

And it would only get worse. “What am I to do with you?” he mumbled, staring down at his crotch. It stirred in response.

“Ah, yes, but you see, we want the same thing-” he crooned, as if to a friend. Or indeed, a foe. “The way they talk they would have me thrust you upon any diseased cretin from the alleys by the square.” He looked out the arch, the heavy emerald smog beginning to settle over half of Asgard. “But we are better than that,” he muttered.

A low chorus of coughing had begun to rise and echo around the high towers of the citadel. Loki grimaced. “I do hope it’s not poisonous,” he mumbled to himself.

There was a knock at the door. “Gods…” Loki sighed, letting his head fall back against the wall in frustration. Will they not let me alone.

It had become abundantly clear months ago that taking care of his sexual gratification by hand was not sufficient to quell the tide of magical energy coursing through his veins. Flesh, was what was required. A second heartbeat. An offering of the basest kind.

The instances of chaotic overspill had started small – batches of grain turning to sand, mirrors losing their reflection in the palace; but as the need for release grew, so did his frustration.

There was a reason that his familiar bedfellows had fallen out of favour. He caused too much angst. Too much heartbreak, that much was clear. They were satisfied for a time, but tormented in their limbo for his affection. Or his title. But they could never be her. He could see it in their eyes, the realisation when they felt him leave their cooling beds. It was not their fault.

He could not have her. She did not know or care of his existence, not really. Not outside of his garishly rouged face on a mural. Loki was not interested in breaking hearts. Not anymore. Especially his own. And as time when on, and the leakages grew in strength – people were afraid. There was that, too.

The knock came again. With an exasperated exhale, Loki rose. He crossed the room, smoothing his palms down the front of his tunic. Hooking one thumb in the low slung belt around his hips, he tried his best to look menacing as he opened the door. “What do you-”

The frown of annoyance melted to confusion as he ran his gaze over the waiting form in stunned silence. A woman, her face dipped in a light curtsey. Soft tendrils of hair fell around her collarbone like a nymph. “Your highness.” she spoke, keeping her head down. Loki tilted his head. How curious, he pondered as he reached out and gently tipped the woman’s chin up. His breath hitched at the unexpected sultry darkness of her eyes. Familiar. Impossible. “What are you doing here?” he murmured warily, casting a glance around the otherwise empty corridor. “Don’t you know it is dangerous to-” “May I come in, your highness?” she said softly. Loki frowned at the audacity of her interruption. But there was no hint of fear in her lilt, which he respected – and so the god found himself stepping aside.

The hem of her gown rustled on the stone floor, sweeping in a grand circle as she turned to face him. It was cream, the fastening at her bosom which ran down the centre of its length trimmed in the same dark green as the thick smoke currently blocking out the sun. Loki shivered.

“It has been decided that I am to be an offering,” she said haughtily. Her chin was held high, a beacon of poise and cold elegance. Norns, how Loki wanted to ruin her.

But he wouldn't. He shouldn't. Not her.

He stared back in slack-jawed disbelief, before bursting into laughter. He could feel his stomach clench, the peals of mirth taking a greater hold than the situation deserved. But it had been a while since Loki had laughed, among other things.

“My a-a-apologies,” he gasped, extending a hand to pat down her tangible offence. The lady’s arms had folded, a waft of malice washing over the god like a current. He collected himself, smoothing his hair as she looked on. “It’s not you, you are…” he looked the woman up and down, “lovely. Truly. I just...did not expect my family to stoop so low as to enact a farce such as this.”

The woman began to pace in a wide circle, her finger inspecting the wide wooden curve of his bed-frame. She paused, her chin tilting towards him with a wicked glint in her eye.

“It was my idea, actually” she said, beginning to smile as Loki shuffled where he stood. “Your brother took some convincing, but I think that is only since he had eyes for me himself.”

Loki could not find the words. “The armoury cache has turned to salt, you know” she chirped, smiling while she continued an achingly slow tour of his chambers. Loki groaned inwardly as she peered at the books on the nearest shelf, ghosting a fingertip over the spines.

“You have no idea how difficult it is to get a Prince’s attention,” she hummed. “Especially when he locks himself away and denies the ladies of the court an opportunity to flaunt themselves. Desperate action must be taken,” she purred playfully, the fragrant twinge of stinging sarcasm inflaming Loki’s arousal. Was she jesting? A cruel, elaborate trick? Loki decided he must be dreaming.

He cleared his throat, painfully aware of his cock hardening beneath his trousers. Of all days, why had he chosen the satin?

“You are here of your own free will, then?” he managed to say. She nodded, a closed lipped smile pressing against her cheeks. His eyes were drawn to the heave of her cleavage, rising and falling in anticipation before they rose back to her face. Her lips.

"It is a grave offence to lie to a god of Asgard, my lady" he warned, painfully aware of the slowing breaths making his voice thick. He could feel his tongue move, yet the words seemed to belong to another.

“They say it could be dangerous,” she said matter-of-factly, ignoring his ominous overtones. “-Fucking you, I mean.” Loki stared. He was fully hard now, the urge to free himself and have the woman against the nearest bookcase almost overwhelming. She raised her eyebrows, a mischievous smirk curling at the edge of her mouth. “Personally, I think it’s all rather exciting. Don’t you?” “You’re mad,” Loki mumbled, realising with surprise that he was already halfway across the floor. The woman let out a low tinkling laugh, resting an elbow on the shelf. “You’re one to-” Loki’s lips collided with the siren, crashing against her mouth like a tempest. She parted for him, wild hands twisting in his hair as he pressed her against the wood. Her moans of excitement, her breathy pants into his mouth as he caged her. Loki was undone.

His tongue wrestled hers, hands exploring the curves of her body that bucked against his touch. Meaningless words gasped from his lips as her palm slid harshly against his cock, mastering the slide and squeeze along its length.

“Bold, my Prince-” she teased, as his throat worked in grunts and swallows beneath her touch.

“I take nothing which was not already offered, my lady” he keened, thrusting against her hand. Their lips met again, deep curls of muscle enveloping the other in wet need. “And not all which is offered, either” he groaned against her ear. “Not yet.” The woman chuckled, sliding her hands up the velvet of his tunic. She pushed him lightly, making him stumble back like a feather. The backs of his knees hit the bed, falling and landing on the pristine sheets with a bounce.

“Take it then,” she uttered, laden with ceremony. Her eyes smouldered, wild waves falling around her face. Fingertips worked invisible buttons at the bodice of her dress, the middle section of green parting before she shrugged it from her body. Loki gripped the sheets, thighs trembling. “It is here, for you...my Prince.” Loki wet his lips, hungry eyes staggering up every perfect inch of her naked body. Mapping the trail his fingers would take as he sank into each delicious curve. The god felt his thighs widen, the tight trousers he wore an unbearable constraint. With a flex of his fingers, he was as naked as she. “Norns,” she whispered, her eyes wide. She began to pace towards him, a sudden goddess of love and peace and salvation. “You’re even more beautiful than they say.”

Loki barely heard her, transfixed by the supple legs which now straddled him on the edge of his bed. With a sharp intake of breath he let his hands run over the curve of her ass, squeezing gently. In turn, her fingers wrapped around the root of his cock, tugging as she breathed against his cheek.

“How long I have waited for this,” she murmured softly. Loki groaned. He fell back, bringing her with him in an animalistic kiss. He was being rough, he knew that. But he could barely control the deafening roar of unnatural lust. It flowed from him in waves, a roar of static crisping in the air.

“If you feel you are in danger, leave – immediately,” Loki gasped, throwing his head back with a moan while she ground against him. His mussed hair fanned against the sheets. He could feel the well of magic pulsing inside him with the beat of his cock. Like a drum, louder and louder in his ears. “You need this,” she panted, “we all do.”

Loki was tortuously aware of his manhood dancing at the tight slit of her entrance. He felt as a hound did, told to stay itself before a feast table. She moved it in circles, lapping up her wetness. The god groaned again, lips parted to the ceiling. “For Asgard,” she murmured coyly, before sinking fearlessly onto his cock. The cry which strangled itself from Loki’s throat shook books from the shelves. A ripple reverberated from the bed, making stone from the high arches crumble in dusty clouds.

His eyes flew open, and he knew from the reflection in her own that they were dark as a lemurs. The pupils drowning out any colour in his irises; wide. Wild.

Hands flew to her hips and pushed her down as he thrust up, bottoming out. A ringing cry sounded around his chambers. “Good...girl,” he smouldered darkly, an empty echo of past affairs. “Uhhh...y-yes- good girl.” Loki heard his own voice in singular clarity. As rich and foreboding and potent as a tangled forest by moonlight. There was a squelch as he withdrew, before flipping her over. She lay below him now, her features alight with desire and self-satisfaction. Her pretty moans tickled the air as he filled her sweet little cunt to the hilt. Each slap of his hips scraped the bed further across the floor. Ancient mahogany screeching on rough stone. Had sex always felt this good? Loki couldn’t recall.

All he knew was he needed to fuck to the edge of oblivion. Her fingertips dug into the taut flesh of his ass, pulling him deeper. Loki hissed, curls swinging wild over his brow. Flames nested in the torches hung on the walls snuffed out, plunging the room into inky blackness. All that remained, while the cloud of his unspent lust blocked out the sun, was her body. This temple that would restore him. Loki sucked down, teeth grazing a bruising kiss into her shoulder. “Loki,” she whined, moaning like a whore. “More-” And Loki complied. He hoisted her legs over his shoulders. “My benevolent offering,” he muttered in barbed desire, sliding his wet cock inside her inch by tantalising inch. Loki’s eyes rolled back as he hit bottom. Consecration, surely. The torch flames came roaring back to life, licking the very ceiling above them in a tidal wave of primordial heat. The woman gasped, her pussy tightening. More dust fell from the archways, specks swimming in the air as the god punctuated every thrust with a filthy curse known only to he.

She exploded upwards, hooking her arms around his neck and pulling his mouth to hers. Their bodies writhed with devilish rhythm, each fluid buck of Loki’s hips making emerald stars explode in a dreamy haze above their heads before melting to nothing. “I’m close,” she panted, tightening her thighs around his hips. Loki growled, his breathing heavy. He could feel the animal inside him rear. The bull. The wolf. The serpent. Ready to feast upon her pleasure like a wasted demon. He pressed down, tugging her clit with slow, wicked waves of his hips.

With a howl of his name, the woman came undone beneath him; her hair sprawled and spilling over the bed’s edge like a sacrifice. The room began to shake. Or was it the palace? Loki didn’t know. Trinkets fell to the floor, smashing. Crashing sounded from the next room, plates, jars of ink splattered like dried blood on the stone. Ancient tomes thudded with morose cracks, a sound which at any other moment would fill the god with despair. But not at this moment.

Every muscle in his body was tensed, primed to detonate. His balls tightened as they slapped her skin, the thundering surge of magic in his body threatening to burst in uncontrollable chaos.

He couldn’t. It was too much, too dangerous. Suddenly her fingers clasped around his jaw, drawing his gaze to hers. It was dreamy. Happy. It was trusting. And brave. That too.

“My Prince,” she whispered softly; a calm in the storm. “Cum for me.” He pressed his forehead to hers, his breathing becoming steadier. The fingernails of her free hand scratched gently between his shoulder-blades, down the curve of his spine.

Loki savoured the heat of her body beneath his, the unrelenting grip of her channel around the root of the realms woes. She worked him fearlessly, lilting her hips up to meet the base of his cock with rhythmic grace. “For me,” she repeated, before placing a gentle kiss over his parted lips. She sucked the bottom one as it released. Loki’s mind was blinded by light. Shuddering, incapacitating pleasure searing through his body as his world went dark.

Orgasm ripped through him like torn leather; fierce and merciless and raw. It rose in an eruption, consuming and obliterating and remaking him as he spent himself inside her.

A shimmering pulse of power emanated from the bed, spreading and rippling through walls as the whole of Asgard felt the release cascading from his veins. From his cock. An aftershock that would be felt through the realm. The god's face was contorted with pleasure. A thick, shaking gasp of exhausted relief was all he could muster as he collapsed in a heap beside his saviour. Moments passed. But truly, it could have been an age.

“Did I say anything?” he panted, utterly spent. “I just felt...-” “-my name,” you finished, running a hand up his chest.

You dragged your fingernails gently down his stomach, sighing happily as the first licks of sunlight appeared through the clearing smog. “I didn’t know you knew it.” “Of course I do,” he murmured. A veil of sleep began to descend while he inhaled the scent of your sex damp hair. Was this a dream?

If it was, Loki hoped he would never dream another.

He turned to you with a lazy smile, eyelashes heavy with the bliss of it all. He was free. And she was here. Her. You. “I did not think you knew mine," he said quietly, before sleep took him.

Tags

@meowmeow-motherfucker @gigglingtiggerv2 @imalovernotahater @avengersalways @littledark11 @lokikissesmyforehead @simplyholl @fictive-sl0th @thedistractedagglomeration @loopsisloops @glitchquake @holdmytesseract @jaidenhawke @silverfire475 @lokischambermaid @morriggannlostinfandoms @marygoddessofmischief @sebstanwhore @xorpsbane @peacefulpianist @yelkmelk @wheredafandomat @mistress-ofmagic @acidcasualties @ozymdias @your-taste-on-my-lips @lokidokieokie @kikster606 @peachyjinx @tbhiddlestan83 @trickster-maiden @skymoonandstardust @justjoanne242 @sidepartskinnyjeans @ladyofthestayingpower @wolfmoonmusic @brittbax @smolvenger @liminalpebble @joyful-enchantress @kaleenjackson @fictional-hooman @mochie85 @mischief2sarawr @multifandom-worlds @morgan-wolf @thenotoriouserg @november-rayne

#loki x reader #loki smut #loki laufeyson #loki fanfiction #loki x reader smut #loki x female reader #loki laufeyson smut #loki odinson #loki odinson x reader #loki laufeyson x reader #loki fanfic #loki marvel #loki gif #loki imagine #loki of asgard #loki x yn #loki x you #loki x yn smut #loki x you smut

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ryttu3k · 3 months ago

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Speculating on why Astarion doesn't seem to remember his mortal life. Some of the other spawn clearly do (Leon knows who Victoria is, Dalyria remembers being a doctor), and Dalyria had a high-up position, so it's entirely possible she was over a hundred when she was turned. Maybe Astarion's memory loss is due to his age when he was turned?

Elves in Forgotten Realms have an interesting relationship with memory. All FR elves reincarnate. Initially, when they trance, they basically just relive their past lives; in their second or third decades (teenage years or twenties), they experience First Reflection, and they start incorporating memories of their current lives into their reverie. This is basically… part reflection, part reinforcement of what they learn in their waking/active hours, so it sounds like it's pretty important to turn short-term memories into long-term ones. Over the next several decades, they dream of their past lives less and less, and eventually go through a fairly traumatic event called Drawing of the Veil, at about a century old. After that, they're considered, culturally, to be adults. After the Drawing of the Veil, the memories worked through in trance are entirely of their current existence.

(Source: Mordenkainen's Tome of Foes. It's a 5e book published in 2018, so it could have been a source for BG3, I suspect. The game doesn't agree entirely with the book - it says elves stop visibly aging at about thirty, and Astarion, Halsin, and Minthara all look older - but they could have definitely taken notes from it.)

Drawing of the Veil could indicate that an elf's memory centres of their brain are now fully developed and 'attuned' to their current life. So, what happens if the process is interrupted? Astarion was turned at thirty-nine, well before the Drawing of the Veil. I wonder if this interrupted the usual reinforcement of memories, or damaged the memory centres of his brain? He's had, at most, thirty years of a potential ninety years of memory centre development, so he does remember bits and pieces, but the vast majority he missed.

It might not have been instantaneous, ie. waking up in his coffin without any memories at all. But over time, without being able to sort through those mortal memories in reverie, they just start fading away and can't be written into long-term memory. If Dalyria had already experienced Drawing of the Veil, her memory centres wouldn't have had the same damage, so she'd be able to keep working through her mortal memories in trance; Astarion, who was turned younger, can't work over them and so they just… end up forgotten.

Also worth noting that Astarion also doesn't trance exclusively, too - he actually sleeps at times. Most surface elves never true sleep unless they're badly injured, ill, or exhausted (drow sleep more). We do see Astarion trancing, but we also see him sleeping a few times - he sleeps and has a nightmare in his Origin run, and he's sleeping during that scene with a Dark Urge who's romanced him. If he can't access his past lives or mortal life when he trances, then literally all he has access to is… his life under Cazador's rule. Dreaming might be weird and scary and uncomfortable and risky, but it's also a possible escape from not reliving two centuries of shit.

There isn't really anything to confirm one way or another in-game, but I did wonder why Astarion doesn't remember his mortal life, and Dalyria appears to do so. Astarion was young for an elf when he was turned, so I wonder if that could be the reason why, interrupting that memory formation development.

(Side note: I do consider Astarion to have been an adult when he was turned in almost all ways, including physically, mentally, and in Faerûnian society. He just wouldn't have been considered an adult when he was turned in elven culture, due to not having undergone Drawing of the Veil. He was a Baldurian elf, considred to have the rights and responsibilities of any other adult. If he had been raised in, say, Evereska, that'd be another matter entirely, but Baldur's Gate is mixed, and majority human. A great analogy I saw once is that Drawing of the Veil is analogous to having your b'nai mitzvah - of course a thirteen-year-old isn't an adult in broader society, but within the community, a b'nai mitzvah is expected to be held accountable for their actions, know Jewish law, participate in things like fasting for Yom Kippur, count towards minyan, etc. It's a specific cultural standpoint of maturity, even if it's not a broader societal standpoint; with the theory above, it would also have a biological component with memory formation, similar to how b'nai mitzvah most often coincides with puberty. Anyway, even without Drawing of the Veil, 39 is still painfully, tragically young for someone that could have potentially lived to 750.)

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion ancunin #the pale elf #astarion's age

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dailyadventureprompts · 7 months ago

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Adventure: Grasping for Answers

Throughout their early adventures the party come into conflict with the agents of the mysterious mage known only as "The Ravelling Hand", a villain of uncertain identity who seems to have lots of schemes and no qualms using violence, trickery, and unexpected magic to get what they want.

Adventure Hooks:

The party first become entangled with the hand's minions when they're asked by an innocuous travelling merchant to deliver a small wrapped parcel to the wizard living one town over. The wizard isn't open to receiving guests, and after sneaking or charming their way in, the party will find out why: her apprentice has been kidnapped, the parcel contains both of the boy's index fingers as well as a note explaining that she can have the rest of him back in exchange for several dangerous texts in her collection, delivered by the party to the same intermediary who hired them. A brawl is likely to ensue as the wizard suspects the party is in on the blackmail, but if they can talk her down maybe they can figure out a way to work together to get the boy back before any more harm comes to him.

Most thieves know better than to try and rob a magic item shop, but most thieves aren't armed with dispel magic infused salt grenades to neutralize the shop's ubiquitous defences. A rash of these attacks across the duchy has shopkeepers worried, and one hires the party to stake out their store for the night when they suspect someone is casing it. Do the party trail the robbers back to their hideout, or interrupt them mid heist only for combat to delay them long enough for those indiscriminate defences to start turning back on?

Spoiler Alert: The mage is in fact an arcanely gifted lesser kraken by the name of Dlexx who seeks to avail itself of all the magical knowledge amassed on land. Sure the deep has its own mysteries but there's a thriving trade in spellscrolls and arcane tomes that don't make it below the waves. Using an old lighthouse as a disguise for its massive form while on land, it uses telepathy and sendings to direct its minions without ever revealing its true nature. Imagine the party's surprise when they roll up to the villain's lair expecting to bully some crusty nerd with a ratty beard and instead the lair sprouts tentacles that drag them into the crashing surf.

Challenges & Consequences

Finding Dlexx is an adventure in and of itself. When questioned, most of the mage's minions admit to never having met their employer, and those high ranking enough to have been summoned to a place called "saltbite tower" in dreams only to later have their memories muddled. Careful interrogation and study of local maps will have the party realize that the tower is infact an abandoned lighthouse, which will narrow their search as they comb the costline for their enemy's lair.

Actually defeating the Ravelling Hand might prove too much for early level adventurers, as in addition to being a powerful mage the kraken is literally in its element, able to breathe and move while the heroes flounder. Dlexx will toy with them, throwing unconscious foes out of the water the way a fisherman throws back a catch that is too small. When the battle is over and it's proved it's point the kraken will collapse the tower and leave into the wide ocean, telepathically taunting them with their inability to follow.

Though the Ravelling Hand will not resurface for some time, the destruction of the tower and Dlexx's retreat into the deep is partially a bluff. The kraken chose that particular lighthouse because it was a short distance away from the coral reef into which it scribed its arcane learning the way a wizard records spells in a book, coiling arms etching formulae into hundreds of yards of living stone. Dlexx must periodically return to the reef to add spells to it, and sightings by locals (or the occasional fish manifesting with magical talent) might clue the party into the reef's existence.

A pair of merfolk siblings named Crashing-Tide and Arcing-Mirror serve the Ravelling Hand as apprentices and scribes, having promised seven years of utmost loyalty in exchange for the chance to bring the arcane knowledge of the surface back to their community. They tend to the reef, and allow the Kraken to borrow their eyes from afar so that it might study the spells scribed there. Several years into their pledge, Crash (the sister) has come to idolize Dlexx and the power it wields above and below the waves, wishing that the whole of their shoal to come into its service. Mirror (the brother) is skeptical, well aware of the kraken's manipulations and distantly suspicious of the conflict that it invokes. Perhaps if the party can intercede with these two they can learn more about their enemy's plans, though doing so will take some careful diplomacy.

Artist

#seaside #seaside villain #ocean #merfolk #arcane #wizard #rescue mission #low level #village encounter #town encounter

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annwrites · 5 months ago

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⸻ one in the same. part two. ⸻

· pairing: otto hightower x bastardtargfem!reader · type: part of a series · summary: otto comes to the library for a bit of solitude, but finds you there instead. · word count: 2,185

You jump when you hear the heavy doors to the library firmly shut. Solid footsteps then echo across the marble floor.

You remain quiet, silently stepping, then peering around the corner of a large bookshelf, greeted by the sight of Ser Otto lying his palms flat atop a cherry-wood table, sighing, closing his eyes, shoulders slumping forward slightly, as if out of exhaustion.

You've been thankful more times than you can count for your lack of involvement in politics. Rhaenyra can have the throne—she is most welcome to it. You, meanwhile, are more than content in your books and embroidery, long walks and peacefully wading through the clear waters of the Blackwater beneath the Keep, accompanied by none other than yourself.

Let the men have at it, you say.

You clutch your book close to your chest, heart pounding, as you realize this is the first time you've ever spied on the older man.

He has seemed rather busy—perhaps even distracted, as of late—since Rhaenyra's appointment as your father's heir, and Daemon's fleeing to Dragonstone.

You had not been sad to see your half-uncle go, however. He had always made you uncomfortable with his lingering gazes and double-edged jests that you'd always pretended to be too ignorant to understand, so you would not have to acknowledge the things he was really saying.

Otto lifts his head then, and you quickly step back around the corner, carefully sliding your book back into place upon the shelf before you, listening as he comes closer.

You don't know why you feel the need to hide, but there's something exciting about it—you being aware of him, but not him of you.

You wonder how many times it has been the other way around. What all it is, exactly, that he knows about you.

You silently slide another book from the shelf, watching him through the empty space as he peruses the expansive selection of literature before him. He turns, so you quickly duck as he finds the tome he had come for, heading back to the table. He then retrieves a map, unrolling it, settling weights upon each corner, and your lip twitches.

What you're doing feels so...forbidden. Gazing upon him like this. All alone.

Just the two of you.

Your eyes trail along his lean frame—his black cloak, lined with fur, his green tunic, the sword at his side. You briefly wonder how adept he is at using it. Or, at the very least, once was. You try to imagine it: him with a weapon in-hand, cutting down a foe, but struggle to conjure such an image within your mind's eye.

You bite back a smirk when you consider trying to scare him. It would be all-too easy. You don't think he would take too kindly to that, however. You still have yet to learn where it is, exactly, that the two of you stand.

After that day in the Sept, when he had offered you consolation, you'd thought of him...rather often. And with a newfound warmth, which unsettled you. For years you had loathed him, had felt nothing but such sentiments toward him, and had never believed you would feel anything other than. Until you did.

You'd hardly spoken since, however. You'd passed one another in the halls—nothing remarkable to speak of ever occurring between the two of you, though. You did not so much as acknowledge the other when you did. But once or twice, his hand had brushed against yours, and when you glanced over your shoulder, watching him go, his steps never faltered; his own head did not turn.

But, once, his hand had flexed down at his side—long fingers stretching—before forming a fist as he disappeared round a corner, leaving you staring after him.

You roll your eyes, quickly tiring of watching him do nothing but read and plot, and grab a random book and a small step-stool before settling the object before a window, climbing up, seating yourself, and leaning back against the colored pane.

Otto's head jerks up and in your direction, only now realizing that he is not alone.

"My Lady," his low voice drawls.

You glance up to him from your novel with a raised brow. "Ser Otto," you reply before looking back down.

You feel his eyes remaining upon you, but pretend to ignore it as you flip the page, not even aware of whatever it is that you're reading, unable to concentrate on much else but the sensation of him watching you.

He slowly walks toward you, hands behind his back. "You did not make me aware of your presence."

"Should I have?" You ask, turning another page. "I was here first, after all."

He shakes his head. "Were you?"

You look up to him. And then you catch onto his sarcasm and your lip twitches. "I suppose you have been here for a very long time."

He glances down to the book in your lap, not taking the bait. "May I?"

You shrug, offering it to him and he takes it, holding it between his hands. "Battles and Sieges of the Century of Blood. An accounting of the fall of Sarnor, if I recall. A particular interest of yours?" He looks to you from under his lashes with a raised brow.

You flush. You should've bothered looking at the spine before just grabbing the first book you saw.

He hands it back to you. "I see the septa's teachings have become more encompassing."

You close the book, looking toward his makeshift-desk for the afternoon. "And what are you working on, I wonder?"

You hop down, walking over, leaving your book behind.

He folds his arms behind his back, standing straight, watching as you analyze the map spread across the tabletop.

"Do you know how to read a map, My Lady?"

You roll your eyes at his doubtful tone. "Yes," you lie.

He hums. "Show me where we are currently located, then."

Great.

You stare dumbly at the colored drawings of green and blue and brown and white, refusing to admit that you have no idea where to even guess at being.

"Do you need a hint?" He asks, stepping closer.

You frown. "So, I'm not versed in geography. I wouldn't need to be anyway, considering I've never been outside of King's Landing." Or the Red Keep, really.

He points to a place on the left side of the map, toward the bottom of a large splotch of green. "Here."

"Where is Oldtown?" You ask.

You don't see the small smile that graces his lips when he indicates its position next.

You nod, glancing to the heavy, dusty tome to your left. You then turn, looking up at Otto as you lean back against the table. "Maps and plotting. Do I need to be worried?"

He pulls out a chair, seating himself.

It's when he leans back, folding his hands over his abdomen—the sunlight from the window casting shadows across his face—that you realize just how exhausted he looks. It seemed to be his permanent expression now.

"Nothing you need concern yourself with, My Lady. Things will...eventually be well in-hand in time, I'm sure."

You sigh. "You don't have to refer to me by my title each time we converse. Just so you are aware."

He looks up at you. "What would you prefer?"

You clasp your hands before you. "My given name is just as well."

He considers your request for a moment. "Only when we are alone, then."

You nod. "And you?"

"Otto is fine."

You look over your shoulder toward the map. "Will you not tell me, Otto?"

It feels so incredibly strange to not preface his name with 'Ser'.

He chews the inside of his cheek for a moment. "What I speak of to you remains between us."

Who else would you have to tell? "Of course."

He looks to the map. "The continent where we are located, do you see—at the bottom—the broken pieces of land leading east?"

You turn, planting your palms atop the table. "Yes."

He stands then, closely, his side pressed against your own as he gestures to them. "They are known as the Stepstones. There is a triarchy of free cities—Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh," he points to each, "that have invaded the area. Initially, we had thought they'd brought an end to a problem for many. Corsairs and outlaws—a troublesome danger—have impacted trade and travel between us and Essos for many a year now, which they took swift and sudden action against some time ago.

"But they have, slowly, become what they set out to destroy, however: yet another foe toward those who are meant to be their allies. They've imposed taxes and tariffs that have risen to unthinkable levels. I fear war is afoot if an agreement can not be settled upon in due time."

You don't like the sound of that: war.

"Will...will they come here, if fighting does commence?"

He shakes his head. "I doubt it. They would be ignorant to try."

You chew your lip. "What do you plan to do?"

He places his hand against the small of your back. "Let us speak no more of this. I do not wish for you to trouble yourself with political matters. Things will be handled duly, I am sure of it."

You agree easily. "Where is Highgarden?"

He indicates with his index finger a place not terribly far from Oldtown. "Why do you ask, Y/N?"

You shrug. "I've wondered about many places, since I have seen none," you reply quietly.

He faces you. "Where would you go, then, if you had the choice? Anywhere in the Known World." He pauses. "Highgarden?"

You smile, nodding gently. "I think it would be my first destination, yes."

"And why is that?"

You look up at him. He may mock you for your response. If so, you'll take your leave.

"I only know what I have read; seen in paintings. It seems something from a fairytale."

"I dare say it is."

His hand brushes against yours. "Is that all?"

You shrug. "I know women are not allowed, but I find the Citadel to be fascinating. All those books and scrolls..."

You then glance to the small pendant of the Hightower that is pinned to his chest. "Do you think I would like it there?" You ask, looking up to him.

He raises a brow.

You nod toward his pin.

He gives a small smile. "You can see clear across the Sunset Sea the closer you are to the top of the structure. So I dare say, yes, you would."

You walk to a bookshelf, browsing. "Do you miss it?"

"My brother at times, perhaps. I am thankful for my high room here, however. It reminds me of home."

You smile to yourself at that. "Were you frightened when King Jaehaerys summoned you as his new Hand?"

"No. Not in the least. Honored the more fitting sentiment for my reaction to such an appointment."

You reach up, standing on tip-toes for a book on a high shelf, then huff when you do not even come close to reaching it.

Otto rounds the table, then watches with a frown as you jump in a poor attempt at retrieving it, your long curls bouncing.

He presses himself to your back as he grabs it with ease, lowering it to you. "Is it truly so difficult to ask for aid, My—" He pauses. "Y/N."

You turn around, your chest pressed to his as you stare up, into hues of green. "I could say the same to you."

He settles his arms behind his back. "And how might that be?"

"You don't have to carry it alone: everything that weighs upon you. You needn't place all the Realm upon your shoulders—"

"Because you—or I, for that fact—are so adept at...sharing ourselves. Our innermost thoughts. Turmoil."

You blink up at him. "I did—that day in the Sept. I believe you did as well, when we discussed matters of faith, or lack thereof."

He steps away. "Hard truths are not often easy to share. Particularly with those we are still yet...unfamiliar with."

You raise a brow. "I hardly can be expected to believe that I am unfamiliar to you."

He looks down to the map once again, placing figures upon it, then rearranging. "I do not know what it is that you mean to imply."

You snort lightly, which causes him to look at you.

"You have never had me spied upon, then? I remember some years ago, when I bloomed into...womanhood, a sudden change in my servants. Each and every one. It has only been mere speculation on my part, but I always suspected you had a hand in it."

He shrugs. "Mere conjecture."

Gods, he's so frustrating.

He speaks again. "And now you have spied upon me, hiding between rows of books. Mayhaps we are even?"

You smirk, stepping up to the other side of the table, across from him. "Not even close, Ser."

#fic: hotd (otto hightower x reader)#otto hightower imagine #otto hightower x y/n #otto hightower x you #otto hightower x reader #hotd x you #hotd x reader #hotd x y/n #hotd imagine

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